Frozen Woe
by Ellyndia McGovern III
Summary: An exploration of Snape's development as a sarcastic cruel man -- through an examination of his childhood, and the relationship with his father.
1. Part one

Warning: The following has cases of major profanity, and adult situations.   
Viewer discretion is advised.

Something written purely for the love of Snape, and the fact that winter is upon us, [at least for those in the northern hemisphere] and I have no central heating in my house.

The main action takes place in 1986, when Snape has been teaching for approximately five years. Why 1986? Because that's when I was born, silly.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

  
Frozen Woe__

_"He seemed a part of the mute melancholy landscape, an incarnation of its frozen woe, with all that was warm and sentient in him fast bound below the surface..." _Ethan Frome

_The past. _

He always remembered being cold. He found himself wrapping in more and more jackets, scarves, even when it rose to a sultry sixty-two degrees, and his fellow classmates ran around in the sun, playing games. The English winters did not help. He would shiver in the darkened room, not making a fire, or even spending his time in the family room where the only fire he was allowed to be in close contact with in the house was. 

He remembered the first time he tried to feel warm during the winter. He was about six, and after waking up to the cold, he remembered the heat of the living room. Hurriedly he dressed, the cold egging him on, numbing his extremities as he tried to put his shoes on the right way or his robe correctly. 

He was almost breathless when he finished, the lure of the heated room and the welcome light enough to capture the six year old's fantasy. A last knotted shoelace and the little boy ran out, down the hall to where the heat was -- and stopped.

His father was there, dressed in his shiny black, as the little boy knew it to be. At the sound of the door opening his father looked at him, along with other strange men, all of their piercing black eyes scaring the boy like nothing he had known before. For a moment he stood there, capturing the scene in the locks of memory. It was sudden then when he ran away, closed the door with a snap, and retreated back into his room.

He heard in his room indistinct yelling, some of his father, some of the unknown men, and a little of his mother. He heard the slam of the front door, the thudding of his father's heavy boots, coming to his room.

The cold blows into his room as his father flings open the door. The boy was no doubt afraid; his father is mad, but the little boy knew not why. 

The father crossed into the room, ominous and positively terrifying. 

"Get up."

To the little boy, the man he knew as his father was very scary. As he stood up, he looked up to his father's displeased, furious face.

"Yes, father?"

"What was so goddamn important that you had to interrupt me?"

The bass voice boded evil tidings. The little boy could see his mother to the side of his father, hiding in the doorway. He wished he could go to her now -- Daddy was getting scary....

"Answer me!"

"I-I was cold, sir."

His father's lips pressed into a very thin line. Suddenly the boy felt a bright burst of pain on his face; he twisted away and fell on the floor, crying.

"Adolphus!" 

Through his tears he saw her mother try to get to him, only to be held back first by words, then forcefully by his father.

"Don't touch him."

"But Adolphus--" his mother pleaded.

He rounded on her and whispered savagely -- "He ruined any chances we had! I needed to seal that deal -- they didn't need to know that I had a boy --"

"I am not a boy!"

His father let go of his mother and stared at the boy again, more baneful and evil as ever. The pause before all of them spoke of consequences, because even though he didn't know why, the little boy knew he was not to argue with his father. The father raised his hand to strike the child again; in response the boy shrieked in anticipation and covered his head.

"Put your hands down and stand in front of me like a man!"

Slowly the child put his hands down to his side. The father looked down at his offspring, then at his wife who stood at his side, too scared to speak against him.

"Come, Lucretia," his father said, as he turn quickly and marched out the door. "He wants to be treated like a man -- so we shall let him suffer like one."

With no other words, the door slammed shut, and as a six year old Severus Snape stood in the middle of the room, he heard the door lock.

***

He had spent that day in his room, in one of the coldest days he ever remembered. For the longest time he remembered that day as his toughest trial, to not cry and wail at the door, hoping that his mother would come and rescue him from this six year old hell. Even then he knew in the instinctual mind of the six year old, that his mother would not rescue him, that both he and his mother were trapped under the command of his father. Instead he sat there under his blankets, watching his breath form white clouds of haze which vaporized almost immediately in the room. And he spent that time, not reading, for his hands were cold to the point of the joints locking up, he could not even turn the pages, but thinking, in the unique manner only a six year old could, and wondered if he would survive.

***

His family got increasingly poorer after that. The boy could not determine what exactly, he could just tell a difference between years. It was never discussed how or why this change occurred -- one among the many taboo'd subjects that would warrant a beating. There was another memory -- the day that his father took his and his mother's wands and left the house. He had returned later, and Severus recalled having a piece of chocolate, his first in a long time. After that though there wasn't even a fire in the living room -- they lost the other source of heat, the wonderful stove, and were forced to adapt a metal ugly monster which only produced a scant amount of heat, and even that was inconstant, using a highly inefficient fuel called 'coal', and limited strictly to preparing food.

Nothing was constant. His mother and father got different jobs -- sometimes living for weeks without a pay check, eating beans and rice -- then just as suddenly going to steak, and having a radio, and even a new jacket once and again. All though this the only thing he could remember being the same was his school, Primary School #34, the blue tint of his darkened room, and his painful hands when it got cold.

There were times when it was good -- brief amusing incidences which warmed him enough for a scant smile, but these were few and far between. His father spent more time away from home, hitting heavily on the alcohol and insults. His mother, while always stating her love for her 'little boy', was weak, unable to hold a job such as secretary work or a seamstress for long. The boy, as he grew up, was forced to prepare food for the family, amuse himself. Books became his companions, his father's library giving him access to a world of activities and subjects that for a while took him away, as long as he returned them before his father came home.

Like all lessons he found out his flaw the first time he discovered the books. His father slapped him again, took away his precious book, barraged the boy with insults to his health, intelligence, lack of tact. 

And so the sneaking began. Ways were devised to take books from inconspicuous places -- leave them in places where he could pick them up and retreat with them to his room where he would read for long hours of the night. Day after the day after school the boy (as he should be known now, he is no longer little) stole another book from the library, replacing another one in a system only he knew.

This is the way bookworms are made.

***

When the letter came he had no idea what it meant. He only saw the odd seal on the letter -- his mother saw it too and snatched it up, opening it eagerly.

"What is that, Mum?" he asked, swallowing a spoonful of his breakfast cereal.

She didn't answer and furiously ripped open the letter with energy the boy had not seen in years. She read it, and a glow lit up her hallowed face.

He was more confused when she ran to him and squeezed him. He tried to get out of his mother's embrace.

"Mum -- you made me spill the milk!"

"Oh, that can wait -- you've been accepted!"

"Accepted?" He stopped struggling.

"Into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! -- here --"

She handed her son the letter. Over the spilt remains of his cereal, he read the letter. At age eleven he did not realize the implications of the letter to his future life.

While his mother started humming (an overly new sound to Severus' ears) and cleaned up the milk on the floor, talking about robes and a wand and such, his father entered the kitchen, coat in arm and hat on head. His mother turned at the sound of the door opening and stopped humming immediately.

"What's that you got there?"

"Uh...a letter from Hogwarts, sir...seems I've been accepted..."

His father glared at his mother, who seemed to melt and all her happiness drained away from her face.

"You know we don't have the money to send him away."

"We'll find a way -- I have my inheritance --"

"Yes I know." The tone in his voice made it seem that this hidden pocket of money was to not be discussed. His mother immediately casted her eyes down toward the floor where the milk had began to grow sour.

His father shifted his coat to his other arm. He angrily stared at Severus and barked --

"Get out of here."

Tentatively he left his bowl where it was, scooted his chair out with an abnormal ethereal screech, and left the room. He went to his room, where he could hear the familiar sounds of his parents yelling. He sighed once and the yelling, like so many of the conversations in the house, became little more than background noise. White noise, he had seen it called, in a book of child psychology he had gleeped one particularly rainy Saturday.

He tried not to get up too much hope for leaving home. Though it would probably be a blessed release from the frailty of his mother (as much as she loved him) and the iron will of his father, he would not allow himself to have hope. 

It was hard though, for the ten year old, to not imagine of a time where he could walk around without the bulky jackets and scarves, where the girls would not shriek in horror when they touched his cold hand as they passed back books or papers in class. At ten he was still hopeful, still truly hopeful, and finally the will quit and he dreamed of warm fires and food -- enough food to fill his palate and maybe for once not go to bed hungry. 

Time passed, and then the door gently opened. By this time in his life Severus has learned to stand up at the command of a door, and when he does he sees his mother.

"Oh, Severus!" She rushes in and hugs her child, and for a moment he is warm. Then she lets go and starts talking non-stop -- excitedly, animated.

"Oh, he's letting you go! We're sending you to Hogwarts; one of the best schools in the county! You'll get to study Charms and Transfiguration and even Quidditch! We'll have to buy you a wand -- and several other things -- they have moving staircases! And the fields are big and expansive, with a huge forest and a lake --"

He stood there, and though it felt as if he was being deceived, he too looked up at his mother with such expectant eyes, and for a moment he was truly ten years old.

"And...books?"

"Yes dear -- so many books -- you'll never be able to read them all!" She laughed a truely happy laugh which sounded much clearer in the cold of the bare room. She hugged Severus again, and they were happy. He didn't even feel the cold. 

For a moment after this, his father walks by the open door. He stares at them, glares at their happiness. And no matter what or how he reasoned it out later, then and there Severus felt that he should not have been happy. That glare from his father spoke of contempt, a resonance that only dimmed when he passed out of view and his mother hugged him again.

"So --" she asked him eagerly, "do you want a toad, owl, or rat?"

***

He remembers their faces as he got on the train to Hogwarts that faithful September 1st. He remembered feeling afraid, journeying to a place new and wondrous strange. It sounded like a heavenly place, this Hogwarts did, from what his mother was able to tell him. He was looking forward to all that warmth, where the fires never went out, and the food never ended....

He sat down in an empty cab and stared out the window. His mother caught his eye and started waving frantically, mouthing his name. His father made no move, his face remaining impassive. So as the train started and moved forward, Severus turned to his seat, and prepared for the future.

He had determined several things on the first of seven long rides to his school. He was going to read -- read all those books in the wonderful library. He was going to make some friends -- he hadn't had one yet, one that he really felt connected with. And perhaps the greatest one -- this one cemented with that final glance of his father standing on the sidewalk. He was going to be better than him. He will be successful. He will have money to match his heritage. He will not make the same mistakes as him. And he will, with work and determination, be nice to people.

These were his goals at eleven.

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_December 19, 1986. The present. Morning._

He still feels cold. Waking up on a frosty December morning, two days before the students were going on Christmas break, he still feels cold. For a moment he curses the lack of automated fireplace spells that he had requested the Headmaster to install. 

He reaches for his wand which laid on his bedside table. He raises his arm from the covers and pointes to the empty fireplace, which, if the House Elves did their job, should have a fresh supply of wood waiting for such an action.

"_Ignatius_."

He waits for the corresponding flair-up of flame. When none came, he angrily flings back the covers and says his first English words of the day.

"Damn House Elves."

He lays there, meeting the cold, as it causes his skin to rise in defence. He tries to not feel the chills in his muscles as the cold permeates his body, causing the muscles to shudder at command of the cold. This is a game -- has always been a game, to see how long he could withstand the attack. Over the years he has gotten skilled at it, getting to about 30 minutes without diving under the covers for warmth. 

Today he does not feel like playing. He jumps up defiantly against the cold, wand with hand, and almost threatened his fireplace with his wand, as if it were a misbehaving student. 

"_Ignatius_!"

No response from the charred remains of his fire. He points again at the wood.

"_Ignatius_, dammit! _IGNATIUS_!"

The wood erupts in flame and burned as merrily as if it had been burning for hours on a full chord of wood. He lowers his wand carefully. He looks first toward the door, then up at the ceiling, waiting to see if someone heard him. For a moment he questions what had happened. Why had he responded to lack of wood in such an unrefined manner? There was no use yelling at the wood -- it was not capable of making mistakes. 

He places his wand on the desk and proceeds getting dressed. All through the process he mutters heated insults against the competency of House Elves, their lack of skill, tact, and adequate syntax. People wonder, he thinks, as he sits on his bed and ties his shoes, why House Elves are servants in the first place. It is obvious that they are destined to serve the populace of those superior to them.

But when such a simple job is botched up.... He looks to the fire, a product of his own frustration rather than any skill or talent, and thinks:

"I only needed one piece of wood -- just one. Then I could make my own fire and there would be nothing more to discuss. Yet, because of some lower life form, whom I must rely upon my daily feed and warmth, neglects his task, I am forced to lower myself to such inferior actions which belittle myself and my race. If anything, this is a sign to the collective majority that House Elves should be stamped out!"

He rubs his hands together, greeting the pain which came from them like an old familiar friend. Today he is going to introduce the distillation apparatus to the 2nd years, and he needs his hands for the meticulous handling of the device. His hands feel cold to him, as they always have. He cups one hand in the other, feeling in the general transfer of heat from cold, to cool, to even hot. For a moment he tries to remember if he ever had warm hands.

It is the glimpse of a stack of essays on his desk, waiting to be graded, that stops his wishful remembrance. He shall grade them during his planning period, he decides. He stands up, takes his wand, and quickly puts out the fire in the fireplace. He slips the wand into his pocket, putting on his customary overcoat, and, muttering about mutinous House Elves, leaves his chamber.

***  
Once he is out of his chamber, his job begins. This is the way he thinks of it -- forming the leaders of tomorrow under a steady, disciplined hand. To approach it any other way would be unprofessional. 

He is still cold going through the drafty halls of Hogwarts, though his speed makes the nearest heat source, the staff room, appear all the more quicker. He is watching for anything suspicious, any students who are not supposed to be out before eight A.M. He almost looks for them; the single movement, the flash of someone hiding behind a column. This is his hobby now, at least outside of his room, watching for mistakes. 

His sense of others around him is profound. They are like beeps on a radar, little flames of beings who are, usually, unlike him.

So when he opens the staffroom door, he comes upon talking, socializing among the teachers. He closes the door gently behind him and makes his way to the tea table. Several wish him good morning, and he responds in like. He gets his tea, maybe a biscuit or two from the table next to it, and the paper and sits.

From his chair, a little bit distant from the others, for he enjoys his solitude in the morning, he catches phrases of conversations. They are, to Severus, far more interesting than any of the wizard-interest stories the Daily Prophet is always printing. He does not know why, but after reading the main headlines (not the articles) and maybe the editorials, he sits the paper down and listens. He has learned much about his students from such listening excursions, for as teachers who live at this school 10 months out of the year, they talk much more about the students as they would like to admit.

He does not hear any complaints about lack of wood in their fireplaces -- he starts to suppose that he was the only one without wood this morning. This made him even more irritable, considering it was always he, it seems, that was being left out of the workings of the world. As if he wasn't even important enough to be remembered for a log of wood!

He sits mutely, listening to the remains of the conversations that were not finished the night before, or are results of sleep. He hears today the rehashing of the adventures of one 3rd year who almost got eaten by a plant during Herbology -- Sprout continually cited that story as evidence of her value to the insitution.

Then Filius complained about his sore back, after being thrown out of the tower yesterday during a charm gone wrong. He was now asking the teachers at large what he should do.

"I mean, Suzy didn't mean it -- she merely flicked her wand at the wrong time and sent me sailing out the window!" He laughed heartily. "If I hadn't thrown down a cushioning charm, I wouldn't be here right now!"

"Filius, though she did commit a mistake, she should be disciplined," comes the voice of Minerva, whose back is to Severus as she speaks. "Miss Harper has lax wand work -- she needs to be corrected of it immediately, or else she might throw someone out a window that can't cast a cushioning charm."

Severus finds himself standing up and getting closer to the conversation, under the pretext of getting more tea, though he didn't really want it.

"True, true. I was thinking 10 points from Hufflepuff would be sufficient."

"You can't do that!" (Edith) Sprout protests from the couch across McGonagall. "She didn't do any harm -- just give her a stern warning!"

"Edith," spoke the rather deep voice of Aradeus Vector. "You're being biased. You can't show favouritism toward your own House. We must uphold the rules, and I believe it is against the rules to defenestrate a teacher, is it not?"

The circle of teachers laughs, though Severus stops pouring his tea. He did not like feeling this way, vulnerable, with his back to a group of his colleagues. Something irrational stirs in him, something older than his conscious self, and he makes his way around the table, so that he could face the group. This is unconscious on his part, but when he is in a better position to see the group, he feels relieved. 

He keeps his head down as he carefully turned the cart of biscuits, acting as if he iscarefully selecting one, but really listening to the group's conversation.

"Besides, Aradeus," Sprout says, after downing the remnants of her tea, "I don't show favouritism toward my Hufflepuffs."

"Yes you do!" says Aradeus, and Edith throws an exaggerated astonished look.

"No I do not!"

Here Mattie Hooch interjects, pointing to Edith with her biscuit. "Dear, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you favour your house. You're worse than Severus -- isn't she, Severus?"

The group looks up in expectation to Severus, who admits he is caught unawares. It is not often that he is directly addressed -- he had made a living out of fading into the background. But he lifts his head, looks at the group, then Mattie, and says, quite ambiguously, "I wouldn't know."

"See?" Edith points to Severus, which causes his second shock of warmth toward the group this morning. "He agrees with me!"

"Actually," Minerva says rather smugly, stirring her tea, "Severus is worse than Edith." She looks at him, drawing him into the conversation, wanting a mini war of wit before going to class.

Severus finds himself straightening himself up and responding, "We're discussed the issue enough times, Minerva, and it has lead nowhere. "

"Oh, I know that, Severus," she says, almost smiling coyly. "You have the right to control your Slytherins in the manner you see fit and I have the right to control my Gryffindors in the matter that I see fit." 

Severus saw some of the staff exchange looks. These discussions -- which was what they were on the surface, but he was completely aware of the connotations of each comment. It was a vicious circle, he thought. A circle he and Minerva performed every time they met. It was his cool approach to everything and defensive tactics that caused them mirth, he saw. A free show.

He did not feel like performing for them, so he slowly goes around the table so that the table is behind him. He feels their life energy burring, adding to a collective pot of humanity. It is strangely...seductive. 

"Would you like a seat, Severus? There's some room over here," Mattie offers, patting the seat next to her. 

"No thank you, " he says automatically, and immediately he is separated. Besides, he did not feel like their equal. Not after five years, still not equal enough to sit with them. Instead he places both hands behind him on the table.

"If I recall correctly," he starts, casting a look toward Minerva, "the topic was a choice of punishment for Miss Harper."

"What would you suggest, then, Severus?" McGonagall replies. He did not want to be provoked like this -- he wished secretly that he had never stumbled upon their conversation, but now that he had frozen himself in this place under his colleague's eyes, he had to respond.

"Should Miss Harper had attempted such a stunt in my class, be it accidental or not, she would still be responsible for her actions. I would recommend a week's worth of detentions, as well as a fifty point deduction from her house. "

He watches McGonagall nod her head in agreement, while Flitwick looks astonished.

"I couldn't do that, Severus!" Flitwick protests. "Maybe if I had been harmed, but I'm fine! Just fine! See?"

He jumps off his stool and did a little jig. The scattering of applause leaves Severus dazed and confused. It is like their energy and life is pulling him in, and the more he wants to stay and continue the conversation (it was two minutes to 8 am) the more he wants to leave.

"Even so, Filus," Severus continues in his dry manner, "my opinion was requested, and I have fulfilled my obligation."

Almost on cue, the grandfather clock rang for eight A.M., and breakfast to be served.

Severus is the first one out the door.

Continue in Part Two.


	2. Part Two

Continuation of Frozen Woe, part two

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_The past. July 1, 1971. Morning._

He was home again, in the same room. Now there was sunlight streaming through the window, while he tried to write an essay for Charms that he was assigned only a week ago, on the last day of school.

"_Severus_!"

Her shriek blew through the paper-thin walls toward his room. He reluctantly capped his quill, and with a huff, pushed away from his desk and went toward the voice.

"Coming Mother," he hollered in response, as he quickly walked to the kitchen where his mother had (for once) been tending over the beans and rice which was to be supper. 

"What is it, mother?"

"Your father wants you," she said. It looked to him that she was warning him of all the dangers his father could be, but Severus was not stupid. He at this point had realized that with people of position, you must pick and choose your battles -- most of the time bowing your head in servitude, waiting until the moment is right to strike.

The first thing he noticed about his father's office was its heat. It was hotter than he ever remembered, even at Hogwarts. His father was shuffling through papers on his desk. It was when those black obsidian eyes of age captured the younger's spark of rebellion that he was reduced to a little boy again.

"I have here," said his father, "several bills from your schooling. I notice several items -- most notably for hospital stays." He looked up at Severus, who wiped his forehead from the oppressive heat. "Explain."

"Around mid-April I fell with the flu," he said, "and had to spend two days in the Hospital Wing."

"Did you miss any school?"

"One day sir. But I assure you sir," he added hastily to the look of displeasure, "that day was forced upon me by the infirmaries, who said I was not fit to function."

His father muttered to himself. Severus noticed he had taken off his jacket and sat before him in his long-john top. 

"It still doesn't explain this expense -- 'three days for cuts, bruises, pneumonia, and a broken left arm.' Explain."

Severus hung his head. He did not want to have to explain the incident which had put him in the hospital, it was still uncomfortable and embarrassing.

He felt his hands, and the sensation of perspiration and -- yes -- actually feeling warm to the touch was interesting. So it was possible, he thought. I can feel warm --

"Answer me now, dammit!"

Severus quickly let go of his hands and put them to his side. He looked at his father as solemnly as he could and replied:

"I got in a fight."

"A fight? With whom?"

He took a breath. "James Potter. And Sirius Black. And Remus Lupin. And Peter Pettigrew."

"Four at once?"

"Yes sir. In the rain."

For a moment his father looked at him in a sort of wonder, and something which could have been pride, maybe astonishment.

"Who won?" he asked.

It was Severus' turn to be shaken a little. It was not like his father to show interest in his activities. Actively he started searching for any signs of alcohol in the room. He found what he was looking for, a whisky bottle at the corner of the desk, but he was in no position to move. 

"I think it's a little obvious who did, sir," he said. He waited for insults, if any, with hands clasped behind his back. Again he felt his hands which felt alive and waited.

"They kicked the shit out of you, boy?"

His father smirked, while Severus recalled the werewolf at the end of the tunnel. How he ran out like a little sissy boy, into the rain, still being caught by the werewolf, almost being torn from limb to limb....

"Yes they did, sir," he responded. Then, almost as an afterthought -- "Left me out in the rain to die, sir."

His father looked at the expenses again, then at his son.

"Don't they teach you anything at that school you're at -- Hickson or something?"

"Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts, whatever. Don't you learn to defend yourself there?"

"I take a Defence Against the Dark Arts class, but it is only against Dark Arts. And as far as I know, teenage boys are not a product of the Dark Arts."

Oddly enough his father laughed, as if Severus was trying to be funny. His laughter was foreign, and there was much wheezing at the end, betraying the mirth and merely colouring the laughter old. He stood still, listening to his old man guffaw and wheeze, guffaw and wheeze.

"You're a smart lad, you are." He pointed at Severus, and pulled up from a drawer a bottle of Odgen's fire whisky. So it was the alcohol talking. 

His father took a sip, closed the lid, and placed the bottle on the table. "They might not be full of Dark Arts, but some run around as if possessed. You ain't possessed, boy, ain't ya?"

"No sir."

"Not by no thing, right? Or no woman?"

"No sir."

"Never let yourself be controlled by a woman, Severus -- they should be a breed of Dark Creatures themselves. Cruel and cunning, ready to pull your eyes out."

He took another draught from the bottle. For a moment he stared at Severus, who still stood silently.

"Shit, Severus! Sit down a sec! Relax! You're gonna bust a vein or give yourself an ulcer if you stand like that. 'T ain't natural!"

He did not want to be in a room with this man any longer, it was dangerous. He could smell the alcohol from his father's breath from here.

"Sir, mother wants me in the kitchen to help with dinner. If you'll excuse me..."

"If that old bitch wants you, then go ahead." He waved drunkenly to the door. "And drop the 'sir' shit. We're family! Call me 'Pop' or even 'old man'. You're makin' it sound like we're business _hic_ associates!"

"Sorry sir, I can't do that, sir," he said and left the room rather quickly.

Back in his room there was a relief from the substance-induced conversation. The coldness was actually relieving to him now, after almost 10 minutes in that stuffy room from hell. It was quiet also, no drunken babblings of his father or weak whining of his mother, who seemed to just hang along for the ride. He left his work on the table and lays on his bed, hands behind his head, as he listened for the relative silence. At least until the quiet was broken again by the screams, he could think, and be, and actually enjoy the cold room. And though his hands were now cold again, with the temperature invading at his slightly opened jacket, he at least knew they were the product of nature, and not some manmade flammable material.

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_The present. Still December 19, 1986. _

When the owls come in, the following stream of cold air circulates through the huge room. It comes in behind the teacher's table, and causes Severus to pull his overcoat tighter. He doesn't look at the birds dropping mail into the plates of their recipients. This act blends itself into the background, a common occurrence that he has acclimated to.

Instead he turns to Minerva who is reaching for a piece of toast.

"Minerva?"

"Yes?"

"Did you have wood in your fireplace this morning?"

"Yes." She stops to look at him. "You didn't?"

"No."

"Such incompetence," she mutters, cutting a piece of sausage with her fork. "I shall have a talk with Dobby."

She skewers the sausage and swallows. Severus turns to his own meal...where a letter sat on top of his plate. By this time the birds had flown out, and he was left with this letter. He could only assume that it was dropped by a visiting bird, but he had no letter to expect. He looks to the left and right, surveying the eating student populace, searching for anything suspicious.

He looks at the letter again, flipping it over once, looking at the seal, which was a simple 'DF' entwined together. The address, too, was written in an unfamiliar script. 

As he slips a finger under the seal, he waits for the punch line to this cruel joke. Woe betide the author, he thinks, and woe betide the author's friends, and woe betide that author's house, should anything happen to him.

The paper seems normal...he does not feel any unusual substances on the paper, nor detects any hint of nightsblade, or wolfsbane, or any number of poisonous inks which he knew.

So, after feeling for his wand still in his pocket, he read the letter:

_Sir,  
We regret to inform you that your mother, Lucretia Millicent Belindia Zenobia Dodona Belit-seri Omphale Snape, has passed away. She has named the Dulchemer Funeral Home as her executor. As her executor, we request your presence Saturday, December 21 at 1:00pm to settle her estate. Services will be held for Mrs. Snape at 2:00pm the same day.  
We are sorry for your loss.  
Lucienne Valentine_

The first thought is one of sadness. But it is brief, and feelings of inadequacies, frailty, and general disgust left over from his childhood slowly quench the sadness of a family member's death. He folds up the paper, and sticks it in his pocket. What irks him now, more than the leaving of the woman who gave him birth, was the inconvenience on his life. He did not look forward to traipsing through the windy streets of Hogsmeade to go to an hour meeting and then come back again. For a moment all he can do is sit there, frozen in a brief uncharacteristic pause of indecision. All he does is stares at the populace again, some of them looking at him. Immediately he glares, and they turn away. 

His mother is dead. Perhaps the full implications of this remark has not struck him yet. He supposes he should feel _some_ remorse for the woman. After all, it's not everyday your mother dies, he reasons. But he is at work -- he must perform his role as taskmaster. To show any sign of sorrow is unacceptable. This thought runs once through his head, and it is strong enough for him to stand up, push in his chair, and exit through the staff side door.

***  
He is before the Headmaster later that day. The papers are graded. The distillation demonstration has yet to come. He has nothing he could do in the interim.

The kindly head of Hogwarts looks up from his paperwork, takes off his glasses, and puts them gently on the desk.

"Yes?"

After seven years under his tutelage and five more under his employment, Severus still feels (and yes, marvelled) at the little ripple of respect from the Headmaster creates from this simple inquiry. He takes a tentative step into the room. He finds himself, eyes casted down, staring more at the decorative feet of the Headmaster's desk than the Headmaster himself.

"Sir, when I awoke this morning, there was no wood in my fireplace for me to make a fire."

"Yes, Minerva was telling me about that." There is almost a casual treatment of the issue that for some reason made Severus furious. 

"She'll talk to Dobby and the other House elves during her free period this afternoon. Seems like this is only one event in a string of mistakes. Uncooked food reaching the students, unmade beds, no wood in the fireplace."

Severus quietly scoffs. Traitorous, inefficient House elves running from his cleavered hand flashes in his mind. He smirks.

"I'm sorry you didn't have any wood Severus; it was rather cold this morning. If I didn't have a meeting with Cornelius, I would have never gotten out of bed."

"But your duty as Headmaster--"

"You take me too literally, Severus. Always have." The Headmaster chuckles softly. "Yes, Severus, I suppose that the Minister of Magic would not take it in kind if I receive him from my bed. Though, I could have a bed made up here..."

He tilted his head in abstract thought, as if it were a novel idea to have a bed in the office.....

Severus, not really having a reaction to this statement, could only stand there dumbly. He forces himself to speak. 

"I request leave for December 21st, sir. I shall be back before nightfall."

"Go ahead, Severus -- but if I may ask why..."

It is always the Headmaster's soft unobtrusiveness that makes Severus feel he was being connived out of his persona -- made to express his motives, to express his emotions, to feel.

"I have received a summons -- " Carefully he removes the letter that had been sitting in his pocket all day, from his enthusiastic sprint down the Potions hall to catch a student high on the fumes of a levitation potion, to grading those papers. He is aware of how cold his fingers are, yet again, as he passes the letter across the Headmaster's desk. The Headmaster openes it and read its contents with a gentle eye.

It is a moment before he looks up again, and gently folding up the letter, hands it back to Severus, unusually grave.

"I'm sorry, Severus."

"Thank you," is all he can say in return. For a moment the Headmaster's morose reflection upon the death of someone whom he never met made Severus, who admitted no feelings of deep-panged love such as he supposed was between a mother and her offspring, feel a little colder. He slipped the letter back into his pocket, and put his hands behind his back.

"If I may leave, sir --"

"Of course, Severus. "

The Headmaster's smile is warm, and inviting. He can not explain exactly what made his boss this...warm, but he felt himself smile feebly for a second, then exiting in his usual, hurried manner.

Outside the door it is better. He feels, not as if he was genuinely happy for the Headmaster's support, but as if he had been obliged to smile. Return the gesture of good sociability. Severus always both cursed and looked forward to this general warming up to human contact -- how manipulative it seems to him, to, by a sole expression of emotion, have another respond in kind. And yet, when it is genuine, as was the Headmaster's....

These are his thoughts as he went back to his classroom, to prepare for the next class. 

***

"Mr. Walker. Mr. Walker, _look at me when I am addressing you_."

Tentatively the mousy-haired second year looked up at Severus. The boy's eyes were rimmed with red, and even as he stands there a tear escapes treacherously down his cheek.

"Mr. Walker, why are you crying?" Severus asks this in an almost offhanded way, as he looks to the potion, now threatening to bubble over. Thoughts of endless Scrubbing potions fills his head, as he looks back to the boy.

The boy known to Severus as Mr. Walker gasps once, and turns away from him, covering his eyes. A young girl next to him consoles him, patting him gently on the shoulder and whispering things such as 'It'll be okay, Charles." She then turns to Severus. "Professor Snape, sir, Charles just found out he lost his mother today. He's a little distraught."

He looks to the boy for a moment, his attention causing the boy to stop for a moment, as Severus contemplates the coincidence. It is this that perhaps causes his oddly quiet comment, lacking in his usual seething sarcasm.

"Well ... tell him to stop, Miss Dover. Or else I'm taking twenty-five points from Hufflepuff." 

He turnes away artistically as he hears the collective effort to relax Mr. Walker. While he walks up to his desk, slowly, in combination with the 'shushes' and gasping sobs, he wonders if everyone was supposed to respond in such a manner to a mother's death. For him, truthfully, it seems impossible. Not now, not here, when he is about to take twenty-five points from a House for...grieving.

"Twenty-five!" Severus hollers over the gasps and encouragement. His back remains turned, as a powerful reminder of authority. When the sobs continue, he yells again.

"It will be fifty in about three seconds!" he hollers threateningly. He turns around and sees almost an amusing scene -- 

"One!" he yells.

--Mr.Walker's classmates have tried to place their mouths over their classmate's mouth, just to prevent sound. But it fails miserably -- 

"Two!" he yells again.

--the wracking sounds of grief echo in the dungeon classroom, he is about to give them detentions and forcibly kick out the boy himself --

Two children whisk Mr. Walker out the door as fast as their little legs can take them, and it is after the door slams close that he stands facing them facing immense silence.

"Three," he says quietly. The room is silent. He looks around at them, slowly, full of threatening stares.

"That's fifty points from Hufflepuff," he says slowly. 

"But sir -- it stopped before you counted to three!"

Severus rounds on the little boy who dared question his authority.

"Twenty-five more points were added because now three of your classmates are skipping class."

He sees the boy want to protest -- his fuming and anger rose like a visible red line on his face.

Severus smirkes and feels the warmth the smirk brings. "Would you care to discuss my decision during detention, Mr. Scribner?"

The boy shakes his head no.

"I thought not. Now, the rest of you -- it will require quick work to save your potions now -- they have been on high heat for too long -- they are past the recommended point for cooling. If you're lucky your potion still _might_ work, and this day would not have been a total waste."

He stands and watches the students turn their fires off, and for the foam teeming on the edge of the cauldrons to immediately sink down and collapse.

Continued in Part Three.


	3. Part Three

Continuation of Frozen Woe, part three

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_The past. July 1, 1973. Night._

His father was wearing the ageless dress robes, brought out only on special occasions. Now though, the robes have went from being 'shiny black' to 'worsened ill fitting velvet', thanks to Severus' education. Much changes between the age of six and seventeen, including vocabulary.

His father was a bit restless that evening -- so much so that Severus knew to stay in his room, avoid the rush. The house was filled with an unidentifiable energy, foreign and overly tiring to the lazy pace of normal operations. He knew this for sure when his food was served to him, in his room, by his mother.

"Stay in here tonight," she said, gently placing the steaming plate of classic beans and rice on his desk, pushing aside notes and parchment.

"What else would I do?" he replied sarcastically. His mother gave him a look, and looked toward the door.

"It's important that you do not leave the room Severus -- " she looked toward the door again, as aware as a frightened rabbit. " -- your father..."

"Yes," he responsed in the tired way of being told so many times the same truth. Why does his mother feel the need to verbalize something so obvious?

He continued to read, mentally shoving his mother away. She stood there a moment --Severus could see her wring her hands out of the corner of his eye-- until she got the message and leaves, gently looking toward the door.

He finished his sentence and looked toward the beans. The steam was rising from it, and for a moment it was like Severus had never seen the effect in his cold room. It was new -- interesting -- the way the curling of the white vapor kept forming itself over and over again. Severus watched it for a minute or so, then forgot about it. He turned back to his book, one about archaic uses for toad's warts, and read. Every once in awhile he could hear something from the living room that resembled a laugh. Every once in awhile he would wrap the blanket around him a little tighter.

***

It must have been about an hour or so after he lit his candle when his stomache growls. He was reminded that he had not eaten all day, and supposed that he should eat, if only because he was a human being. He was truthfully astonished when sitting down at his desk he found a cold bowl of beans still sitting on the rice. The spoon laid placidly next to it, and Severus picked it up and pokes the food. He took a bite. 

He could not explain it then, nor would he explain it to himself later why this simple action seemed profound and meaningful. He supposed later in his life, in his quiet pauses of melancholy, between the hectic life of a double agent, that he, in some way, felt like the lowly beans before him. Cold. Plain. Shunned for the other foods when available. And though he at seventeen could not articulate this thought, and though at forty he refused to, he still felt it. He was cold, and for the first time in a long time he wanted the sensation of heat in the gut of his stomach.

Severus gently opened up his desk drawer, took out papers and such, and pulled out his wand hidden out of sight, out of mind. He had not used it at home before, through fear of the law coming and taking it away. But now, at seventeen, nothing held him back. He could cast the spell and warm his food and perhaps even stop shivering. But as he held the wand poised, he stopped. It was the classic confrontation with the unspoken taboo. Since he was seven, he had not seen magic done at home. Since he was seven, magic had been removed from his home life. He had learned quickly not to discuss his studies here -- at least, related to what his father called 'foolish -wand waving'.

[A\N break: SORRY! It had to be said. I know this is so cliché, but it fits! Think about it. ]

Potions were fine. So was Divination and Arthimancy. He even had a conversation about Potion theory once and awhile with his father, in one of his calm periods.

He, in his young age, did not question this irregularity; it had taken him ten years and seven years of wizarding school to realize there was something to question. 

But here, the use of this -- his wand -- it was like committing a sin against the family.

He put his wand down, and stared at it. What stopped him? What, if anything, kept him back besides a little family taboo? Why did he feel so guilty to even consider something for his own pleasure?

In a rash move, he grabbed the wand and pointed it at the food. He paused again, still being held back by the idea of the dirty, gritty, voluntary warmth. Personal weakness. He could live with cold beans. It was his fault he didn't eat it when it was warm. He wasn't good enough for warm food. He went to put the wand up --

And a scream -- a shrill scream rang through the house. Severus jumped up, and grabbed his wand. 

Something odd happened. Severus left his room -- wand out -- aware. It was a newly familiar sense, one he accumulated with seven years around the damned Marauders. He stopped before the door to the living room. He heard his mother scream again, and his father dimly say --

"I told you about bringing that up -- especially in front of them!"

"I know you told me Adolphus," he hears his mother sobbing and crying. Pleading. 

"Why the hell did you say _anything?_ Huh? Had to speak up like the little commie-pinko-femminist bitch you are? Exercise your fucking _rights_?"

"I couldn't let you insult him like that!" she screamed in desperation, in midst of a sob. It created a strangled effect, and for a moment Severus considered turning around, going back to his room. He actually is turning toward the room when he hears his mother choke:

"_Severus is a good kid_!" she strangled out "I -- I won't let you insult him."

"_You_ won't?" Severus could barely hear his father's whispered "_Crucio_" through the door.  
  
The bang of the door opening was timed exactly to his mother's body hitting the floor. She was on the floor, writhing, screaming. His father has a wand, pointing directly at his mother's figure.

"What the hell are you doing to her?" Severus demanded, wand pointing directly at his father. 

"_SEVERUS! GET OUT! GO BACK TO YOUR ROOM_!" 

"Shut up, Lucretia." his father said very quietly. He turned to Severus and pointed his wand at him. For a moment the thought ran through Severus' head that a father should not be threatening a son, but he supposed, in idealistic times, a son should not be threatening a father.

He stood there frozen in the stance, and all Severus could see was the point of the wand and his father's searching, wild eyes.

"Don't you _dare_ raise your wand at me, boy. Put. It. Down."

"I will when you put yours down."

The flush rose in his cheeks. His mother laid writhing on the floor in pain. Nonetheless, neither of them moved, nor lower their wands. Severus could feel his heart beating with a untold excitement, fear, and thrill. It made him feel feverish.

"Fine," his father said nonchalantly. 

"Fine," Severus responded coolly. "By the way, where'd you get the wand?"

"None of your damn business," his father spat. "If you know what's good for you," he continued in a low, threatening voice, "then you will get back to your damn room and not come out for a week."

"I'm sorry, _sir_," Severus said, voice verging on the edge of sarcasm, still maintaining a bare illusion of respect, "I tried to follow your instruction, but the _screaming_ of my _mother_ seriously impeded my studies."

"WHAT HAPPENS BETWEEN YOUR MOTHER AND I IS NONE OF YOUR AFFAIR --"

"I CANNOT STAND BY AS YOU RUTHLESSLY BREAK LAWS --"

"WHEN HAVE **YOU** CARED ABOUT LAWS? ALWAYS TAKING MY GODDAM BOOKS --"

"_Severus -- Adolphus -- please_!" He could see his mother try to pull herself into a kneeling position. It almost broke Severus' heart. Almost.

"YOU FUCKING MONSTER!" he yelled. He gestured with his free hand at the figure of his mother. "LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO A WOMAN! A **WOMAN!** A USELESS, WEAK WOMAN WHO CAN'T EVEN DEFEND HERSELF --" 

For a moment, there was a collective pause. All three of them froze. His father lowered the wand just a little. His mother, about to stand with the aide of the furniture, fell at Severus' solemn heated pronouncement. 

Slowly it dawned upon him what he said.

He lowered his wand, and made his way to his mother. He reached for his mother's arms.

"Come on, Mum. Let me help --"

"Don't help me," she intoned from the floor. She grabbed the armchair and hugged it, not looking up to Severus nor at his father, who just stood there. The cold push blasted Severus like nothing ever before. He stood up solemnly, and looked down at his mother, crying and disheveled as she pushed her hair back, who looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. He felt taller and more the adult now; he looked to his father who now wore an ironic smile.

"So you feel that way too?" he asked.

Severus looked back at his mother. She had quit trying to get up and sat dejectedly on the floor, muttering their names.

He looked back his father. An immeasurable rise of hate for this man, the man whom he had detested in one form or another, and then realized that in avoiding him, he had become him.

"You monster." Severus stated plainly.

"You have to be to survive," his father said simply. He then turned attention to his mother. She looked up from her netting of hair and looked to Severus wild, unbridled, and distraught.

"Stop staring at me! Stop STARING! BOTH OF YOU! **_STOP!"_** she shrieked.

She then grabbed the armrest and with a mighty heave lifted herself to a standing position, almost toppling over the chair in the process. She leaned to the right, wobbled in place, which made Severus think she broke her foot. Her face contorted in a mixture of pain and anger --

"The both of you are unfeeling, male chauvinistic PIGS!" She rounded on Severus, placing both of her hands on the armrest and almost lop siding again over the armrest.

"You're as bad as him," she said dangerously. "Just because you think I'm a woman, that I have a Muggle great-uncle, that I was in Gryffindor in Hogwarts that I'm worth nothing! It DOESN'T MATTER, ADOLPHUS!"

She swaggered toward him, possessed. If her foot was broken, it made no difference.

"THAT WAS IN SCHOOL! IT DOESN'T MATTER! HOUSES, SCHOOLS, COUNTRIES -- THEY DON'T MATTER! THEY DON'T FUCKING MATTER, ADOLPHUS! WHY DO YOU FEEL THE NEED TO BELITTLE ME BASED ON MY _BACKGROUND!?! _DOESN'T IT MATTER_ WHO I AM_?"

His mother took one look at Severus and completely shamed him. When she spoke next the tone had the horrible colouring of inevitability, of fate and such. 

"If you're not careful Severus," she stated quietly, "you're going to turn out like your father. You're well on your way. All you need to do now is grow up, and you'll end up teaching Potions somewhere."

With this final condemnation, she fell into a chair and started crying again. Severus turned to his father. His father merely turned inward, presenting the same uncaring face Severus knew.

"If you threaten me like that again, I will not hesitate to kick your ass," his father said monotonously.

"If you threaten **me** like that again, I will not hesitate to kick **your** ass, _father_." he replied calmly.

He knew he deserved punishment. He knew he had broken one of the cardinal rules. Several of them. And yet, whether it was the idea that he was an adult, or the profound statement by his mother, or the chance he could get his father arrested by the use of an illegal spell, caused none of that to happen. Instead Severus merely switched views, looking at his mother, then his father, then the space between them in a daze of the mind. 

"Say a word about what transpired tonight, and I will not be responsible for my actions," his father said quietly, pointing his wand threateningly toward Severus.

He did not fear the point of the wand anymore. "I will say naught a word," he responds.

Still on the fumes of the argument, he looked to his mother and saw her frailty in a new light. As much as it had hurt him to hear her pronouncement, he knew she was right. He could not help if his cold nature is a direct result of his environment. And for once, for perhaps the first time, he wears that look of unconcern, similar to his own father's, that so many students have become acquainted with.

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_The present. December 21, 1986. 1 o'clock in the afternoon. _

"Hello, Mr. Snape. Come in."

A woman opens the door, and welcomes him into her office. He stops in the doorway. The person already seated turns toward the door, sees Severus, and glares.

Severus purses his lips and turns to the bright red-head next to him.

"I will reschedule this meeting --" He turns to leave.

"Oh, sir, please, it would make it easier for me if both of you are here." She moves to block the doorway. If Severus did not have an ounce of social adroitness, he would have pushed the woman out of his way and left.

Instead he merely stopps moving. He turns back to his father, who now is facing forward. Even the sight of his profile irritates him; the same proud and cold profile he had observed silently for so long.

"No, no, stay, Severus," his father says, turning to the door. "Surely you do not want to inconvenience Miss...."

"Valentine, sir. Lucienne Valentine."

"Miss Valentine, then." Severus narrows his eyes and makes no move to hide his contempt. His father is trying to manipulate him, even now. And though his clothes had gotten a little better, and his hair is a bit greyer, Severus still recognizes the lying, scheming, thoroughly disgusting man who was his father.

Severus slowly came into the room, trying to not look at his father, remaining perhaps a little more expressionless than usual.

"Please, sir. Sit." 

Severus looks down to the other empty chair, and sits down carefully.

The handler for the estate walks jauntily to her desk. Her red hair, cut in what Severus supposes was a fashion, bobbed around her face. He supposes it is a pleasing face, but he quickly suppresses such thoughts. 

"Now, your wife, Adolphus --"

"I would you prefer you call me Mr. Snape," his father says quietly.

The red-head does not stop a moment. "Okay, your wife, Lucretia, left behind quite an amount of wealth and land property."

Severus watches his father nod his head once. And while Severus knew of no inheritance, he neither says nor indicates otherwise.

"Now, Lucretia was fortunate to perceive the complications that her death would create," the redhead says plainly, and puts her elbows on the table, entwining slim fingers with long red (obviously manicured) nails.

"She, from her grandfather, inherited several Muggle properties which will have to be handled through their law office -- their laws regarding deaths are different than ours. You will have to contact the office yourself -- here's their card."

She pulls out a business card and givesve it to Severus' father. She proceeds, almost ignoring Severus --

"As for her wizard properties, she had an annual payment of 2000 Galleons a month from her father's death which she was not allowed to touch as long as she was married."

The smallest of sneers appears on Severus' father's face. 

"Now, in her will -- " here the redhead pulls out another piece of parchment -- "she dictates that an apartment and....10 Galleons a month be decreed to her spouse, if any --"

She looks up at his father. The slightest hint of disappointment and anger now crosses his father's countenance; Severus found himself feeling not in the least bit sorry.

"We will arrange that with Gringotts, Mr. Snape, and payments should start within the month."

Severus' father could not glare at her, Severus notices. He has enough sense to know that this girl is not the one who brought his miserly life; for that's what 10 galleons meant, even worse than what Severus had experienced as a child. Instead he glares at the card of the Muggle funeral executive.

"She has written -- very explicitly, so there are no loop holes that our lawyers can determine, that one son, one Severus Snape, should receive the full sum of both her allowance and the remnants of her original inheritance."

She looks at Severus. "Sir, you are now a very wealthy man."

"How much is the inheritance?" Severus merely asks. The redhead looks down at a note and says, with somewhat of an air of premature happiness, "Eight hundred and sixty-two thousand, nine hundred and twenty three Galleons."

Her smile betrays her job. That was...a lot of money, Severus reasoned. A lot. More than he had ever seen or heard. And it was his, all his....

"Is that with or without the properties?" he saysid in the same tone as before. Miss Valentine's smile dims a little.

"With the properties. Now, I'm going to need you to sign a few things..."

She withdrew papers from her desk. With a slight smirk toward his father who sat seething innwardly, Severus leans forward so he could sign.

"Okay..this one is to notify that you understand the terms of the will...this one agrees that you are responsible for all taxes on properties, this one signs all deeds to you."

He signs them, feeling a pang of contempt for his father.

The redhead quickly withdrew them, and waves her wand first across his signatures, and then across the papers themselves. She taps her desk once and with a foggy POOF a set of identical papers, on blue tinted parchment, pops into existance. The smoke is thick and white, causing Severus to cough a bit. 

"Sorry, sorry about that," the red head apologizes. Severus could see her red fingernails dissapate the smoke. He notices his father coughing also, and it gave him a savage pleasure to see him suffer.

When the smoke cleares, she apologizes again. "I've only been at the job for about two weeks, and that's the first time I've done that alone. Forgive me?"

She looks to each Snape. Strangely both glares at her with a remarkably similar glare. 

"Okay -- these are for you, Severus--"

She hands the blue copy to Severus, who took them as if they were dirty.

"Now, unless you have any questions, we're all done here!"

She looks at them expectantly. Severus turns to his father; he is astonished to find his father turning to look at him. He sees the same feeling of hatred for this woman -- this stupid woman who had no business even holding a wand --

Severus froze. He is thinking in that way again, the way that he was thinking when he left his house that summer night, after he yelled at his mother and threatened his father.

He turns and forces himself to address the woman. "I don't have any questions at this time, but I will not hesitate to contact your office should any arise."

"Great!" She checks her watch, clinging fashionably to her wrist, and then stood up. Both Snapes stand also.

"Well, though it was nice meeting both of you, I am sorry that it had to occur under such circumstances." The touch of seriousness was not real, Severus saw. It is as ephemeral as the vapour in his cold room. 

"Thank you," Severus muttered, and strides out through the door, grateful to leave the presence of his father.

He heard, to his anger, but also expectantly, the offbeat footsteps of his father following him, getting quicker. Trying to get up to him. Well, Severus reasons, he is quicker; he will beat the old man, get outside, Apperate to Hogsmeade, and leave this burden.

He gets outside. Immediately a cold December wind hit him; there is no snow falling, but it laid clumped underneath Severus' feet. The door did not slam behind him; instead the damned footsteps follow, their transition to the snow evident by the change in _crunch_.

Severus whirls around. "I do not wish to speak with you," he spat.

"You're not going to pay respects to your mother?" his father retortes.

"No." He turns to Apperate --

"God-damn it Severus! Do you not care at all for your mother?"

Severus pauses. His hair flew all around his face; now he pulls a strand or two back to see his father. Whether it was the coolness of the weather, or the burning hate within, he saw his father now, not as tall, not as menacing, just...pathetic. The years have done well to diminish his father's authority, so Severus thinks.

"I told you, I wish to not speak with you--"

"This is not about _me_!" his father hisses. "Your mother is DEAD, Severus! Show her some damn respect and get your ass in there!" He gestures impulsively toward the warm interior of the funeral home.

Severus does not respond immediately. When he does though, his voice is so quiet, almost temporal itself, and very cold. One has to strain to hear it over the howling wind. "I will respect my mother as the person who gave birth to me. But as far as I am concerned, she was not my mother in the most caring sense of the word. Now, if you please, I have duties--"

"You have duties as a son! You were the only thing she had, and when you yelled at her--"

A wild, unbridled passion rises to strangle his father; he flies for his father's throat and clutches its collar. Severus, already taller than his father with his bent back, glares at him. His father makes no struggle, just stands defiantly.

"Don't you **dare** bring that into the situation," Severus says murderously. The wind still whips and wrangles around them, but Severus did not notice it."I do not know if you have gleaned this little fact about me, _father_, but I am a rather private person, and prefer to grieve in private. Especially if the service is for your own pity benefit, fulfilling some pathetic subconscious desire to somehow apologize to my mother about what you put her through during your marriage--"

"-- You know NOTHING of our marriage!" his father spat -- Severus' instinct is to look around him, see if anyone else is coming. No one -- Severus had chosen a back exit. "NOTHING!"

"I think I have a pretty good idea, considering I lived in the same household for eighteen years."

"Boy, watch your smart mouth--"

His father reaches for his wand; Severus let go of the collar, whips his wand out, and jumps into full dueling position out in the back alley.

An amused expression spreads over his father's face. "Don't be an idiot, boy."

"I am not a _boy_."

His father laughs a few chuckles, lost in the wind, but Severus stands there, not moving, not amused. His father turns away; he finds his son still staring at him with that same determined face. Severus watches his father's face morph into one more concerned. Worried. Then fearful. For once, Severus is satisfied in making his father sweat, and that balanced out the pain in his bare hands. He was gripping the wand so tightly his knuckles were white.

"You know," his father muses, "if you attack me, like I know you want to do, it would be considered assault. You would get ten years, easily."

"Yes, but if you attack me, like I know you want to do, it would be considered self-defence."

The pause between them is as icy as the weather. His father pulled out his wand, and Severus almost got excited. After apparent thought, and frequent glances at Severus, he slipped it back into his pocket.

"It's too cold to fight out here," Severus' father comments offhandedly. Yet Severus saw the turmoil behind those black eyes, and he likes what he sees.

"I agree," says Severus, slowly putting his wand into his pocket, and then his hands. They felt like two ice cubes.

"Inside?" his father says, gesturing toward the door.

Severus looks toward the doorway. He imagines the warmth of the room, juxtaposed to images of that incompetent woman's fingernails, and further imagines his mother laying quietly, but altogether dead, in some cheap wood box so that only a few friends and neighbours could come see a woman that many only really had pity for, and not adoration. Severus did not even know if she thought of him -- he could not help but see her glaring vices echoed from long ago..

"She always talked about you," his father mutters. "Always wondered where you had went after you left that night, what you were doing, why you hadn't written. _'I wonder what Severus is doing now?_'," he mocks cruelly, "_'Have you heard from Severus?' 'Where is Severus?' _All damn day and night." 

His father poppes a knuckle and continues. "And when she was dying, she would go into these spasms, screaming into the night your goddamned name. Cursing herself, and me for pushing you away."

He turns to the wall of the funeral home, face in deep thought. For a moment Severus swears he really did see regret in the old man's face. But he did not trust the assumption; he did not know regret as well as deceit, lying, hatred, contempt. 

And yet having his father, his _father_, of all people, tell him that he had been called for, he had been wanted, he had been _desired_....It challenges the coldness of his heart, and for the first time he considers going and paying his respects to his mother. He actually takes a step toward the door --

Wait. He must not go. This woman still did not defend him. She stood by while his father abused him, hid in her corner and just screamed 'stop it Adolphous, stop it' while it was he who took the blunt of the blows. Some caring mother she was, didn't protect him one bit.

He turns to leave. He makes the motion to Apperate--

"Your name was her last word!" his father yelled.

Severus turns once more. "You lie."

"No I'm not." His father hobbles toward him. "I was there -- she said 'oh Severus' in the most pitiful way, and died."

Severus stares at his father contemptuously, almost not believing and at the same time believing. His father has taken a sort of unnatural turn. He is pleading, nose a little red, eyes a little wet, or it might have been the wind. But the wind knew to stop when he came forward in one last attempt.

"Please, pay some respect. If not for me, for her."

Without another word, Severus Snape Apperates out of the alley.

***

Back to Hogwarts, his wonderful Hogwarts where he could hide and play the superior. He knew, and yet did not know at the same time, that he had become his father. His father's words made him think of himself (an overly unpleasant experience), and whether he was only hiding behind his father's cold impersonal logic, or whether it was really himself, that it was just a coincidence that he too teaches Potions, or some other reason unknown to him.

His uncertainty annoyed him. His racking pain he felt in his heart defied everything he believed in. His enigma wanted to worm its way into his every waking moment, but he forced it down. He had to, to deal with the environment. Cold, sterile logic was what he needed now, to plan lessons for the next year, acquire ingredients, develop new practice NEWT and OWL questions, teach.

Maybe his job would eventually quash his emotions, he thought. Suffocate it, till it loses its warmth. He determines he shall wait until it does. Meanwhile it is quite uncomfortable. Of course, he muses, he is used to pain. Just...not this kind.

FIN

Note: I know nothing about British law regarding the division of property so I have taken American law. Usually the spouse receives a certain percentage and the child receives a certain percentage, but if the documents are well-written, any individual arrangement can be and is recognized by law. This includes the petty allotment of allowances to the father, and the massive cash pocket Severus received.

I realise that Severus comes off as a bit of a misogynist. For this context, I find it fits. Actually, I would not be surprised if we find out Snape is a bit of a misogynist. It would serve the raving fangirls right to find out he hates women.

Please tell me if you enjoyed the story, or whether it is bad. Hit the 'Review' button.


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